Castle Kingside

“Load!”

With two crawlers and three fliers charging closer, the sorceresses halted their advance. The little girls slammed iron balls into rifles longer than they were tall and aimed forward.

“Release!” the Fire Leader shouted, her voice reverberating in the long-abandoned woodland.

Though the gold glow of reflectia had thinned since the Night of Repentance, and the blessed enchantments beneath likely did too, Zera’s Thunder crackled across gray winter skies, puncturing chinks into the carapaces of the corrupted, heathens crashing to the ground as blue blood poured from their organs.

One girl crushed a twitching flier’s spine with her steel-heeled boots. “Dead!”

“Dead!” said another, stomping off a still crawler’s last leg in a violent act unbecoming of a lady.

“All dead, madam!”

“Well done,” the Fire Leader said. “Fall in.”

Sixteen sorceresses retook their positions in an archwise loose file formation, and when the command to advance had been given, the forward march resumed.

Trailing behind them on his purebred Armistician warhorse, Warnfrid scowled. What an unsightly display. The battlefield was the domain of the masculine. Only once a boy raised a weapon in honor of his liege and home could he become a man. War was his birthright. His duty.

Magic ruined everything. Channelers, combat sorceresses, artillery. Even the Church began sending their mothers and sisters to war with the discovery of spells.

How Warnfrid yearned to protest; he should have been the one fighting, not these girls. Yet complaining would make him a hypocrite. Though the pain in his leg had dulled, Warnfrid was still a cripple. Though he had lamented every lady found dead in the Gestalt Wars, he trained female militiamen for the apostle and Zera. Though he scorned the man who sent his daughters to war, Warnfrid’s youngest was among the sorceresses.

Katerina glanced back at him for the hundredth time that afternoon.

Those onyx eyes—they were her mother’s. Like Brigitta, Katerina too fought on the front lines. But unlike her mother, Katerina was with the guild. She would never have children. She would die alone. Warnfrid fought the urge to ride up and nab her, steal her back to the villa and pamper her, buy her everything she ever wanted and scour the territories for a suitable suitor.

But his wife would strangle him if he did. Brigitta gave up Katerina for a reason. All Warnfrid could do was give his daughter a disapproving frown, hoping the girl would come to her senses and leave the guild on her own.

Katerina flared her nostrils and turned away.

“Humph,” Warnfrid snorted. How insolent. He might have loved them, but he would be the first to admit there wasn’t a woman more pigheaded than a Meier.

“M-my Lord,” stuttered the only sorceress walking out of formation. The curly-haired girl bumbled at his horse’s side. “Maybe we, well, do you think we should—“

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Warnfrid spat. “You’re a bishop now. If you can’t look me in the eye, how do you expect your troops to follow you into battle?”

The girl’s timid gaze crawled up. “Well, I’m not really a bish—“

“Speak with your chest!”

Though she straightened her back, Angelika’s shoulders somehow continued to slump. “Lord Meier! Don’t you think that, uh, maybe the recruits are getting kind of tired?”

Warnfrid groaned. If the girl couldn’t address him with confidence, how could she ever inspire men to charge into battle against heathens? What did the apostle see in someone whose attention drifted away during lessons like a street mutt at the sight of a squirrel? Hoping he simply misunderstood, Warnfrid glanced back.

In companies of two hundred, a force of one and a half thousand men and women lumbered behind his horse. To call them an army would be a disgrace to the word. Fatigue in their overburdened faces, they resembled looters more than soldiers. Some carried furled fishing nets, others felling axes and forging hammers, many more tent poles, laundry lines, and gridirons.

“We’re almost there,” Warnfrid said. “We keep marching,”

“They’ve been marching since noon,” Angelika said.

“You think that’s a lot? When I commanded men, good men no lesser than Zera’s Knights, we traversed ten tours in one night. These soldiers have legs—two of them. They’ll manage two tours. It’s good exercise.”

Glaring at his prized horse, the girl mumbled something under her breath.

“How often must I tell you to speak up?”

“Oh, uh, I was just saying we should cut them some slack because, you know, with those rumors going around, morale is a little… you know.”

Warnfrid knew well what the girl meant. His wife—a busybody who splurged much of her time on mindless prattle with her guests at those wretched communal brunches—had sent him a message this morning, warning of the apostle’s corruption. It seemed all of Remora knew. Even the Hospitallers dragged their feet, eviscerated of holy fervor. His Holiness saw the deflated postures of his soldiers and ordered Warnfrid to march anyway, his ambitions a gamble with Malten’s soul as the stakes.

There could be no delays.

“They’ll have to manage,” Warnfrid said. “We won’t survive a night in this damned forest. Fliers will ambush us unseen from beyond the canopy.”

Although thickening clouds occluded a falling sun, casting blackening shadows onto the undergrowth of thickets untamed for years, neither man nor woman stopped. Complaints were met with discipline. Deserters were captured and pushed to the front. Turning back now would have been a chilling death.

But even Warnfrid began to entertain those rumors as he rode on, the bones of his ass aching more with every bumpy stride, icy winds smelling of frozen dirt biting his dry nostrils with impunity. His Holiness’ magic worked—it had vanquished the plague and mended the pain in his leg, yet rarely did gossip without merit disseminate with such agitated haste. What if the Ancient Evil had possessed the apostle just as it had once tried to possess Celeste? If his spells were failing, perhaps his connection to Zera had been severed as well. Did the apostle deploy the holy army too soon? They might not reach their destination. Warnfrid should have insisted on another month of preparation and training.

Just as he thought that he too would succumb to winter’s gloom, a nostalgic sight glimmered from beyond the trunks of two weeping willows and their ground-sweeping branches.

Cold air rushed into Warnfrid’s mouth. “Reinhardt, go!”

The warhorse leapt over a fallen log and landed atop a sandy shore.

Warnfrid watched in awe.

Beyond the shattered glass and trampled stone of a collapsed heathen barrier, evening light gleamed on the crux of every wave, stretching to the edges of the world like an endless dark blue canvas. A lullaby of crashing, fizzing, and receding. Gulls chirped as they dove from a red sky, and memories of a decade past seemed real once more.

Warmness rose through his body, bringing sensation to his numb and steel-clad fingers. No doubt Zera’s embrace.

The apostle’s chosen arrived soon after. A woman dropped her shoulder yoke and cane. Like her, hundreds of others emerged from the forest, tossing aside their barrels and buckets and handcart handles.

Quiet admiration.

When Warnfrid could summon the will to look away, his eyes locked with a sorceress standing atop a half-submerged boulder. Rifle holstered over her shoulder and a drowning crawler nearby, Katerina smirked, and he thought he understood. Though she could have devoted her life to motherhood and defending the relatively peaceful Meier manor, the guild gave her the freedom to adventure.

He nodded.

She turned her gaze back to the ocean.

The silence did not last. As if their weariness had gone, the recruits grew rowdy and split bread over toasty campfires. Some were already hammering tent stakes into the frozen dirt, reinvigorated by the land upon which they would build their homes.

Warnfrid guffawed. Was this the apostle’s plan? Before his troops—the engine of his will—could drown in the mire of poisonous gossip, he gorged them with morale and hope. They labored without Warnfrid’s command.

Yet a crescent moon still hung high in the sky. The month was young. Would their fervor last when heathens swarmed the coast?

A scrawny kid with a bent wrist rushed closer. “Your Lordship!”

Warnfrid’s face scrunched up. “Who are you again?”

“Pauel, sir. Temporary leader of the Band of Fellers.”

He snorted. That name always made him laugh. “Speak.”

“We found a cluster of faeries near the campsite. Should we burn them?”

“Think I care?” Warnfrid waved his hand. “Kill them however you—“

“Wait!” Angelika interrupted.

“What is it now, girl?”

Hands shivering, she bounced in place. “W-well, the apostle said he wanted to purify any faeries we find, so…”

Purify faeries? It seemed the Jade Surgeon preferred to torch them himself, just as the Church once did. “Grab some men and nets and go take care of it,” Warnfrid said. “I’ll take in the view a little longer.”

Face red and engorged, Precious planted her feet into the cold ground and heaved, pulling on the tent flap with all her might.

“Can you not?” Dumitry complained.

“You… worry… too much!”

“If anything happens, I’ll pretend you’re a pestilence that snuck into my room.”

“Dum… mitry!” Precious’ rage at her oppressor granted her the strength she needed to drag the tent flap back. She rested the corner against a protruding rock to create a makeshift window, wintry winds whistling through. Perfection. Rough leather irritated her cheeks as she squeezed her head into the gap, and Dumitry’s ‘holy’ settlement came into view.

Only two days had passed since the western expansion, and already the circle of deforestation around them had spanned three city blocks. The warnings of fellers echoed in the dawn as distant trees crashed onto the forest floor. Campfires crackled. Like bubbles of joy, piety eked out from countless pavilion tents, their residents oozing hope like dogs promised beef bones.

“Yuck,” Precious said.

“Just make sure no one sees you.”

She slipped inside to evade an approaching patrolman. “I’ve been doing this for three hundred years, okay?”

Sitting at a desk made from his thighs and a crude plank that lay across his lap, Dumitry dropped his chalk and massaged his forehead. “Who woulda thunk that I’d fear discovery by my own troops.”

“You know, out of all the people in your camp, you’re the only one without faith. Stop being so afraid all the time. That’s all you’ve been doing lately. It’s not good for you.”

“Sounds like you’re worried about me.”

“Nope.” No longer sensing the patrolman, Precious peeked outside once more. Her attention snapped to a nearby shore, where men scraped large barnacles from boulders and reeled in nets full of cod and flounder onto the beach. Blegh. Fish. Why would anyone eat that? They smelled like moldy socks and tasted even worse. Not an experience Precious wanted to relive. But the people smoking them over fire pits seemed excited, so good for them.

Near the fishermen, ladies filled buckets with ocean water. They poured the contents into barrels and the big wooden pits being built into the ground. How curious. How suspicious.

“What’s that for?” Precious asked.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t blurt your question out for the world to hear.”

She retreated into the tent. “You can’t drink seawater, so why waste barrels on them?”

“It’s seawater for now,” Dumitry said.

“Huh?”

He set aside his blackboard and cupped his hands. “Imagine I’m holding a cup of seawater. What happens if I leave it outside?

“Well, it’s winter, so it’ll probably freeze.”

“That’s partially true.”

“What do you mean, partially true?” Precious pressed her fists into her hips. “It’ll definitely freeze!”

“Nope.”

“Yep!”

“When saltwater freezes,” Dumitry said, “the salt separates from the water. What you get in the end is highly concentrated brine and only slightly salty ice. We’ll boil the brine into salt, which we’ll use to preserve the excess fish we’re giving away to Malten, and we’ll thaw the ice to drink here.”

“How does that work?”

“It’s called brine rejection. Interested?”

Precious was, but since his explanations always devolved into meaningless musings, she was averse to spurring him on. “No, I believe you. You win. I give up.”

“I see.” Disappointment welled within Dimitry, and like a thickening fenty goop, delicious worry returned to smother his body, weighing him down. He was ruminating again.

His anxiety inspired exhilaration, ecstasy, but even as Precious’ toes tingled with pleasure, something ate at her from within. She regretted not letting Dimitry explain stuff. Between dummy rumors and figuring out how to keep a bunch of peasants alive, rambling was the only thing that made him happy. “Wait.”

“Hm?”

Hoping to avoid a diatribe about brine ejections, she scoured the room for a simpler conversation topic. Only a half-eaten smoked snapper stood out. “Um, uh, fish! You always complain about running low on food for your soldiers, so why would you give away something so tasty?”

“It’s no big deal.” Dimitry’s shoulders relaxed. “The queen was kind enough to let me borrow money, and now she lent me tents, tools, and weapons from the royal garrison as well. It’s time I paid her back. We’ve both got people to feed.”

Precious was a smooth talker. Now that she got him to engage, she would perk him up by establishing a common enemy to disparage. “But everything you’re doing is helping her. The queen should grovel on her hands and feet, thanking you, and now you’re gonna give her food, too?”

“Only until I pay off my debt.” He grinned, none the wiser. “Besides, I’m getting something far more important than money.”

“You are?”

Dimitry nodded. “The fish will be sold affordably throughout the entire kingdom, and it’ll be my name the people hear when they buy it. When everyone relies on me to eat, do you think they’ll care about some enchantment that went wrong that one time?”

“Nope! Looks like you got it all figured out, smart guy! Playing them all like idiots!”

He furrowed his brow. “You feeling alright?”

She froze. “… Maybe.”

“Are you sure faeries don’t get delirious in the cold? I can cut you another layer of fabric. Scissors should still be here somewhe—”

“No! I just want to hear more about whatever you were talking about.”

“If you say so.” Dimitry dropped his medical bag and rocked on the leg of a crude chair that had miraculously survived a decade of rampaging heathens. “I’ll also put aside some salt to sell to the nobles so I can stop being so broke all the time, and we’ll probably need food variety, too. This army won’t survive on seafood and wild game forever. Then we’ll see about building garrisons and wells and a half-decent magic research facili—“

Boots thumped against the frozen earth. They grew closer. And closer.

Unwilling to tempt fate, Precious darted into Dimitry’s hood, warm and comfy.

“Yo, Holiness,” a familiarly boisterous voice called as the tent flapped open. “I did the thing.”

“It’s ready?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“No one else knows?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well done.”

Precious peeked out from behind Dimitry’s ear.

Loudmouth drew back her red hood and shrugged. “I still can’t believe we’re making more of these things.”

“More of what things?” Precious asked.

Dimitry tossed a cushion across the tent. “Precious, would you do me a favor and take a seat? I’d like you to hear me out.”

“So you young upstarts seek my wisdom on making things?” Precious the sagacious drifted over, brushed dirt from the cushion, folded her hands across her lap, and sat cross-legged. “Five questions and not one more! My thoughts are too valuable to give away for free.”

“Do you remember what we discussed a little while ago?”

“You’re still on about that? While a close call, yes, fent is superior to strawberries.”

Loudmouth sighed. “Are those the important talks you guys are having while I’m out there, struggling to make refugees not shit themselves at the first sight of a flier?”

“Just something Precious ranted about on our ride here,” Dimitry said. “No. I told you that one day I’ll make it so you can live among people without worry.”

Realizing the seriousness of the topic, Precious’ smile vanished. “You’ve just barely convinced your soldiers into trusting you again, and you want to take more risks already? I told you before; it’s too dangerous. I’m fine with the way things are. I’ll manage.”

“You’re right.” He stood up and patrolled the circular tent, hands behind his back. “And I’m wrong. It is too dangerous. I can’t do it.”

Precious’ eyes narrowed. Though Dimitry had always burned bright with misdirection, concealing secrets from one person or another, the trickery she sensed from him had reached its apex. “You’re scheming something.”

He stopped beside the strategy bench—a plank kept upright by two pieces of firewood.

“Out with it.”

“I can’t do it,” Dimitry said, “but you can.”

“What?”

“Two days ago, I sent Angelika a letter asking her to capture some faeries.”

“Yep,” Loudmouth said. “Got a whole cellar full of ‘em, the only place I found around here that carapaced devils didn’t stomp into a rubble pancake. I threw them some leaves so they wouldn’t starve. That’s what you guys eat, right?”

“I’d like you to teach them.” Dimitry looked right at her. “Try to make them useful.”

Lips quivering, Precious jumped up. “You’re replacing me.”

“You know I’m not.”

“Then why were you hiding it from me?”

“Because I couldn’t risk you overthinking it,” he said. “Someone is out there, killing people and blaming their deaths on me, spinning my every mistake into a spectacle. Sometimes it feels like this whole damn city is turning on me. We can’t find the gossiper on our own—not like this. I need your help, Precious.”

Worry enveloped Dimitry like a thick mantle, coming to the fore with unprecedented vigor. She wanted to help, to ease his burden, but his ambitions went too far this time. “It’s impossible. Faeries are stupid and nasty and they only care about themselves.”

“All faeries?”

Precious’ eyes widened. “All but one, I mean.”

“I believe everyone has potential.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“Can’t you just try?”

Gnawing on beef jerky like a wild beast, Loudmouth lay on a plank, legs bent with one hanging over her knee. “Classic Dimitry; pushing responsibility onto others. Just so you know, it’s never as easy as he makes it sound.”

“Angelika, you’re not helping.”

“Just saying.”

Dimitry crouched beside Precious. “Look, if it wasn’t for you, I would have died back in Ravenfall. Do you know how many people are alive because of what you did?”

Feeling all cozy, she folded her arms across her chest and turned away. “What’s your point?”

“You’re the ideal ambassador to bridge the gap between humans and faeries. Think about it. The main reason they hate each other is because they act on instinct, but what if someone showed both sides there was a better way? Imagine what’d happen if faeries started helping people, speaking their language, rooting out criminals, diagnosing unwitting trauma victims. The possibilities are endless. They’d have no choice but to accept you. They need you.”

“And why should I care if they need me?”

“Why should you care if you’re the representative of your species?” He smirked. “Well, for one, you’d be allowed inside the castle whenever you want. Nobles will vie for your attention. Merchants for your advice. Fent? Strawberries? Does it matter which one is better? With a word, you’ll have all the fruit your little heart can ever want. Gold, too. Lots of it.”

With every word, the world around Precious chipped away. The dry air became humid. Instead of icy dirt, a trimmed carpet caressed her feet. She sat atop a heated throne, emeralds and rubies engraved in the base, gold cane snug in her grasp. A man knelt at the chamber doors. Too tall to fit, he pushed a silver tray inside, topped with diced and mushy fent—just how she liked it.

Precious exhaled a trapped breath. “You really think it’s possible?”

“If it’s you?” Dimitry tickled her chin with a meaty finger. “Yeah.”

The galloping of hooves interrupted Precious’ dreamy wobbling. They stopped, and as she flew for cover, a panicked equestrian barged into the tent. Loudmouth blocked the entrance, and Dimitry pivoted to obstruct the intruder’s line of sight.

“Too fucking stupid to announce yourself first?” Loudmouth spat.

“My apologies, madam sorceress.” The man heaved for air. “An urgent message from Her Royal Majesty for His Holiness.”

“Just tell me,” Dimitry said.

“She demands the honorary archbishop’s immediate presence at the castle.”

“The queen? What for?”

“His Lordship Tylo Sauer, Marquis of the South, wishes to make your acquaintance.”